


Bisou

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Neck Kissing, Public Hand Jobs, Tan lines, neck porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kiss, on his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bisou

**Author's Note:**

> A very, very short piece inspired by [this gorgeous piece of art](http://beaubete.tumblr.com/post/93825435937/drgrlfriend-professorfangirl-hnng-theres) on tumblr.

It is, as Bond is more than ready to remind him, not a fetish, per se, though it has definitely graduated to a thing: Bond has a thing for Q’s neck.  Long and thin and delicate yet surprisingly sturdy, golden from their holiday in Seychelles but for the thin white line left on the curve of a clavicle by the vest he’d insisted upon, he has developed a worrying habit of touching it idly when not physically restrained from doing so.  It’s never subtle; at any moment Q’s likely to find Bond’s fingers in the back of his collar just stroking that white line of skin proprietarily, or a kiss pressed to the knob of his jaw, or his thumbs on either side of his spine in a massage that Bond knows damned well makes him melt with a moan so obscene he’d had to lay his hands flat on the table just to prove they were above the waist.

No, the problem is that Q enjoys it almost as much as Bond clearly enjoys him enjoying it.  It’s the gentle, inquisitive nibble along his nape that leaves him trembling, the fingers in his hair—and is it fair, Q demands of his body, that that particular pleasure point be so damnably close to the other one?  Bond tightens his fingers and Q all but mews, scruffed like a naughty kitten—while he’s trying to talk to Mallory—and thank Christ it’s not when he’s trying to justify the quarterly budget increase request or else he’d actually have to kill James for it—while Mallory just looks on and laughs with his eyes.  The bastard.

“I trust your holiday was pleasant, Quartermaster?” Mallory asks.  Bond makes a low grumble of assent from where he’s mauling Q’s neck with love bites.  For himself, Q can barely manage a squeak of stuttering arousal.  Mallory hums in confirmation.  “One often finds oneself wishing the slow and easy days could continue well past the end of a trip like that,” Mallory adds contemplatively.  “The sun, spending all day slow and relaxed in an attractive setting with an even more appealing companion can rather leave one feeling a bit melancholy when it’s over.”

“Quite,” Q manages.  Bond shuffles closer, breath whuffling at the back of Q’s head as he manhandles Q’s collar in order to better present his nape for gnawing on.  Q opens his mouth to speak and is mortified by the reedy whine that escapes, letting his jaw close with a click of teeth.

“I find that half-days are helpful,” Mallory suggests with all the subtlety of someone hurling a brick through a plate glass window, “to ease back into the swing of things.”

“O-oh?” Q asks.  Bond’s teeth curl around his grin.

“Mm,” Mallory says.  “You could—?”  And Bond detaches; Q’s off like a shot, hustling toward his office to drop off his lab coat and grab his satchel.  He doesn’t recognize that Bond’s followed until he hears Mallory behind: “Not in his office, if you would, Mr. Bond.”

He knows he looks like a schoolboy on tenterhooks about to be released by his professor, when he gets back with his satchel over his shoulder and rolling on the sides of his shoes like they’re plimsoles.  Mallory’s eyes are laughing again, but Q can’t even bring himself to be annoyed—he’s too busy contemplating whether or not to tie his jumper around his waist to disguise the burgeoning erection he’s sporting.  Bond, in his part, is apparently attempting to decide whether or not to attach himself like a lamprey again.  He settles for grabbing Q’s hand and all but actually dragging him down to the car.

“I could kill you,” Q mutters as Bond unlocks the car, bending over to drop his bag on the back seat.  Bond’s hands are huge on his hips, cupping the bones to wheel him around until he finds himself somehow seated on Bond’s lap, held down by the hand palming his cock as Bond works open his collar and tie to expose the back of his throat for continued biting.  “I mea-ohh,” Q drops off into a shaking moan as lips and hand work in tandem.  Bond’s cock is achingly hard against his arse, hard enough that when he wriggles on his lap, Bond groans and forces him still with a gentle squeeze to the bollocks.  “I’m going to ki-ih-ih—!”  The word goes high and tight at the feeling of Bond’s fingers dipping into his now-opened flies.  “—kill you!”

Bond shushes against his skin, and the pleasure buzzes through him.  “Yes, yes, of course you will,” Bond murmurs soothingly, and Q keens.  Bond’s got him in palm now, fingers working around the flesh to draw squeaking moans; he’s still sucking kisses at Q’s throat that leave him sure he’s going to look like the victim of an amorous vampire for days.  “I want to toss you off,” Bond tells him, and really.

“Well, you’re doing a fine job of it with your hand around my cock,” Q snips.  Bond rewards his cheek with a thrust of his hips and a flick of his fingers that leaves him breathless.

From there, they’re speechless, just panting gasps that fog the windows and Q knows there’s no doubt what they’re doing for anyone watching the security footage.  The thought makes him bite his lip, and then he’s tipping over, spilling into Bond’s waiting handkerchief as Bond continues to mouth at his skin.  “Lovely,” Bond whispers in little puffs of breath as he fondles Q’s spent cock until Q’s squirming again.  “Lovely, lovely, lovely.”  There’s a wet sound—Bond’s licking his fingertips clean.  Q’s ears go hot and red with lust and embarrassment.

“Just shut up and drive us home.  I have a revenge to take,” he mutters.  

“I look forward to it,” Bond rumbles against his back.  His eyes are dark in the visor mirror; they go darker when Q gives him a cheeky smile.  Q can feel Bond’s answering grin against his skin and relishes the way it falters when he reaches back to press against Bond’s hipbone and the bruise of a bite mark he knows is there.

After all, Q’s not the only one who’s had a tropical holiday, and Bond’s tiny blue pants have left the best tan lines….


End file.
